Of Better Blood

by Moger, Susan;

  “I know.” Dorchy grins. “But stealing the car and getting his wallet and watch, that had to make him think.”

  “You gave back the car and the wallet,” I remind her. “And you said it wasn’t his watch.”

  She runs down the beach ahead of me, her wet dress flapping.

  I stop to look back at the artists, but the beach is empty. Poking up above the dunes, its glass top catching the sun, is the lighthouse. Mrs. Chandler at the store called it Nauset Light.

  I dig my crutch into the hard sand at the water’s edge and hurry after Dorchy. Long ago, Father built a lighthouse out of sand on our beach. Even in the warm sun, I shiver at the memory of the day a storm stole Father’s creation and polio stole my legs.

  Chapter 23

  In the dunes, we build a fire, and Dorchy, wrapped in a blanket, dries her wet dress in its heat. Then she opens a can and we heat soup in our pot. It tastes delicious.

  “Our first meal in freedom,” Dorchy says. As the fire burns down, she puts on her almost-dry dress and we go down to the beach. The tide is all the way in, and the ocean reflects the dark lavender sky and pinpoints of starlight. It’s so beautiful that my eyes fill with tears. I wipe them away, hoping Dorchy doesn’t notice.

  “I have something for you,” she says when we get back to our home in the dunes. I inch closer to the dying fire to see what she’s holding out.

  “Oh, Dorchy.” I suck in a breath. “But it can’t be my mother’s camera.”

  “No, but it is an old Kodak Brownie.” Dorchy sounds excited. “I found it at the Expo yesterday.”

  I turn the camera in my hands. It fits perfectly, just as Mother’s did. “I had to leave mine behind,” I whisper, “the day I got sick. And I couldn’t have it at the Home. Julia said Father put it away to keep for me. He framed a photograph I took at the beach and hung it with Mother’s pictures.”

  Which is not the same as thinking I’m alive.

  Holding the camera, I sit on the drop cloth, fighting back tears again. Dorchy has given me Little Women, my life, this camera. What can I give her?

  “Tell me about your mother,” says Dorchy, sitting next to me. “You must know something else about her besides that she took pictures.”

  “I’d like to know more. Like why she died. There must be a reason she died without ever seeing me. Her family must have passed some fatal weakness down to her.”

  “That sounds like your father’s idea.” Dorchy pokes the fire and sparks spray into the dark.

  “No, it’s Julia’s idea too.” I press my hands together. Dorchy is silhouetted against the fire. It’s a beautiful silhouette, but the chin might be a little weak. No one would ever say she was from one of the best families. “Julia once said, ‘Mother was a Collier in name only. She must have had a fatal weakness in her bloodline.’”

  Dorchy jumps up. “Listen to yourself,” she shouts, angrier than I have ever seen her. “How can you sit there and say that about your own mother? After weeks with the awful Ogilvies and the Council cows you still don’t question that ‘better blood’ garbage?” She punches her fist against her palm. “You still think people are fit or unfit because of their family bloodlines? You know as well as I do that Gar and Jimmy and Minnie are as fit as you and your precious father.”

  “I didn’t say I believed Julia,” I point out, as cold as Dorchy is hot. We’ve never fought before or even disagreed for long. “But sometimes I don’t know what to think.”

  A hole opens before me. Dorchy is right. I didn’t question the Ogilvies’ beliefs about Fitter Families or those of the Council. I just questioned their making me act unfit. And I never questioned Father either, although that was because I never had a chance to after I got sick. I close my eyes, try to catch my breath, and concentrate on what Dorchy is saying.

  But Dr. Friedlander’s voice rings in my ears. Have you forgotten what you learned from Stella and the other children on the ward?

  I had to forget, I silently tell him. To survive Dr. Pynchon, I had to forget Bellevue.

  “Aunt Fan told me,” Dorchy is saying, “that ‘Any child can better herself and rise to another level, if she applies herself in school.’ She blamed me for leaving school, when I had no choice. The orphanage made us girls quit school at fourteen and hired us out to work. The whole idea that Aunt Fan is better than Minnie because Aunt Fan’s a teacher is crazy.”

  “How would you like to have Mr. Ogilvie as a teacher?” I ask, and Dorchy shrieks as I knew she would. Then I shriek and scrub at my arm as if his touch is still on me somehow.

  “No more Ogres,” Dorchy says.

  I nod, hoping she’s right. “Why are we arguing?”

  “Because you were being foolish about your mother.” Dorchy yawns. “Bedtime.”

  We wrap ourselves in blanket cocoons and stretch out near the fire’s glowing coals. Suddenly the ocean sounds very loud and overhead the stars seem to have multiplied. The great hand of the wind soothes me. I tumble into the best sleep I’ve had in five years.

  Chapter 24

  Seagulls’ cries wake me at first light. At first I don’t recognize the sound, but as I come fully awake, I do. Their cries woke me every morning of every summer until I was eleven. How could I forget them? A curtain of fog hangs over the ocean, and the air is still and salty.

  I take the camera and go down to the beach. The sea is flat calm all the way out to where fog hangs over it like a curtain in the theater. I take a picture of a feather at the edge of the surf, a gentle tumbling of foam. I keep looking down the beach in case an artist comes out to paint this morning world. I advance the film to number three. That means five more pictures are left on the roll.

  I’m at the beach, but I can’t go into the water. Not with this crutch, this leg. The light begins to glow behind the fogbank. Suddenly I remember Dorchy as she looked yesterday wading into the surf, deeper and deeper, until she grabbed the watercolor. Dorchy, who hates the ocean, wasn’t afraid.

  Later we stand together at the edge of the waves. The sun shines in a blue sky, the fog dissolved. “Lean on my shoulder,” Dorchy says. “You won’t drown. I won’t let you.”

  I lay my crutch next to our blanket and our outer clothes. We’re wearing our underwear and slips. Step by shaky step, we wade in up to our knees, my left arm hooked in her right.

  She’s shivering from the cold water and cool breeze. Her body is slender and strong, all muscle.

  “You went in deeper than this yesterday,” I tell her.

  Yesterday I was terrified of going into the waves. I would be knocked down, helpless to get up. But today, as I fight to keep my balance, something happens. Confidence grows with every step. Both of my legs feel strong, ready to support me or at least help Dorchy support me. When we’re up to our waists, a steep wave looms over us, but I know what to do.

  “Stand sideways and hold my hands,” I say. “I’ll tell you when to jump and it will pass under us. I promise.”

  “Are you sure?” Dorchy sounds nervous. She shrieks as we jump. The wave moves past us, and we’re safe. “It worked,” she yells, thumping me on the shoulder so hard I almost fall.

  “Follow me,” I say. “We’ll dive through this one.” I lean into the wave, push off with my right leg, and dive through it, pulling hard with my arms. I surface and look for Dorchy. I see her head in the foam for a few seconds before it disappears. The wave tumbles her all the way to shore.

  When she finally stands up, I wonder if she’ll give up, but she shakes her fist in the air. “I can do it,” she yells. “You’re not going to win, Ocean!”

  She races back out to me and ducks her head under an incoming wave. It catches and tumbles her to shore just like the first one. She comes right back out ready to try again.

  Her persistence inspires me. I decide to ride a wave one-legged. A perfect wave rolls toward me. Pushing off with my right foot
, I fling myself in front of it, hands outstretched, kicking with my right leg. But one-leg kicking is too slow. The wave rolls on, leaving me behind. I feel a surge of power because I know what to do. I can’t kick my way ahead of the wave, so I have to time my jump closer to the crest.

  I let a few waves pass before I try riding one again. This time I make it. The wave lifts me up and propels me forward, even though I’m kicking with only one leg.

  It is the best moment of my life. I can do anything. Polio did not win.

  I rest on shore and watch Dorchy practice diving through waves.

  “Come back in,” she yells. “I’m ready to ride.”

  I let a receding wave sweep me out to Dorchy, waiting for me beyond the breakers.

  On the third try we catch the same wave and glide into shore, laughing and shrieking.

  “Hello, there.”

  I look up, startled. April in her turban and dark glasses smiles down at me. She’s wearing a Chinese silk robe tied at the waist. “That looks like fun.”

  She looks from us to our clothes piled on the sand, then back to us, and starts to laugh. “Poor dears, you have no bathing suits.”

  I stand up and balance on one foot. “Please hand us the crutch and blanket and turn around. My friend is shy.”

  April laughs and turns her back to us. “She’s swimming in her underwear in broad daylight on a public beach,” she says. “She can’t be that shy.”

  Dorchy wraps the blanket around her. I tuck my crutch under my arm.

  “I saw you in the water,” April says, still with her back turned. “So I came to invite you to join us in town this afternoon. We’re having an art show on the village green as part of Old Eastham Days. You can see my dune drawings, which are much nicer than that muddy watercolor you rescued.”

  Dorchy says, “You can turn around now.”

  April studies us. “Where are you staying?” she asks. “There’s no cottage around here.” When we exchange a look, she says, “I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

  I shrug. “We’re camping in the dunes.”

  “Oh, that sounds wonderful.” April looks wistfully at the dunes, then back at me. “I couldn’t talk you into showing me your campsite, could I? I’m fascinated by the dunes and the thought of camping in one makes me quake with jealousy.”

  “We want to keep it private,” I say quickly. “What are Old Eastham Days?”

  “It’s like a miniature county fair,” April says. “Besides our art show there are pony rides, food booths, even a turnip tent. Something for everybody.”

  I can feel Dorchy’s excitement. “Games of chance?” she asks.

  April looks surprised. “Probably. But for a real midway, you have to go to the big fair in Barnstable next week. The whole Cape comes to that, I hear.”

  “Thanks for the invitation,” Dorchy says. “We’d like to come.”

  My heart contracts. It’s not safe, I want to tell her. The Council could have a Fitter Families booth there. I’m thrilled April invited us, but it’s not worth the risk.

  And I’m nervous about Dorchy. What if there are carnies there? What if she decides to stay with them?

  April walks with us back to the dunes. I stop to lean on my crutch. Walking in the deep sand is much harder than wave riding. I make a sudden decision. “How will we get to town, April?”

  “Do you know Jeb?”

  I nod.

  “He’s going to meet us with the truck at noon by the spring. Some of my group went in this morning to set up.”

  I smile at her. “We’ll see you at noon.”

  “I’m really glad you’re coming. Ta-ta!” She walks away, the wind tugging at her and swirling her long robe.

  I pull the blanket around me and hurry to the campsite to dress. Dorchy beats me there, of course. She combs her hair and pulls her midway clothes—the red dress and hair ribbon—out of her knapsack.

  “That’s awfully wrinkled,” I say in a neutral voice.

  “It’s fine,” she snaps.

  “What if the Council has a tent or a booth?”

  “They won’t. All they care about is Barnstable next week.”

  “There’s still a chance they’ll be there,” I insist. “How could you possibly know for sure?”

  “I don’t.” She fastens the skirt and ties the ribbon in her hair. It looks beautiful. She touches my shoulder. “But if there are carnies there, I want to see them.”

  “You want to run away with them.” My voice shakes. I turn my back and watch the waves calling, Come ride us, Rowan.

  “I’m not going to ‘run away,’” Dorchy says calmly. “I’m going to New York with you. That’s our plan.”

  I draw a shaky breath. “I’m still afraid someone will recognize us.”

  “We have to go to town for food anyway,” Dorchy says. “It will be safer with lots of people around. And when are you going to break down and call me by my new name?”

  “Which is?”

  “Wave Rider.” She pirouettes, laughing.

  “Oh no, it takes years to earn that name.”

  Dorchy mumbles something that sounds like “twenty minutes.” Then she thrusts a wad of bills at me. “Ten dollars for your pain and suffering.”

  I stuff the money in the pocket of my dress and say, “No wallets will be taken today.” I try to say it lightly, but her face tightens.

  “Carny code says if a rube offers, take.”

  “Come on, Dorchy. We can’t risk getting in trouble.”

  “I’m kidding.” She strikes a pose and raises her hand. “Come-a one, come-a all,” she says in the ringing voice of a carny talker. “Little lady”—she points at me—“you’re a cute little doll, ain’t you? Too bad about that crutch, but your spirit ain’t lame, is it now? Step right up here and try your luck! Come on, don’t be afraid. Should she be afraid, folks?”

  I can’t help laughing. But I am afraid.

  “It’s probably just kids’ games and pie-eating contests,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. I point to her clothes. “All that for nothing.”

  She twirls around so the skirt flies out. “This could never be for nothing. Come on.”

  Chapter 25

  We start out looking at watercolors in a large tent surrounded by the artists from the beach. The four watercolorists are dressed alike in loose silk dresses and multicolored scarves. Their paintings look alike too.

  April—in a rose linen dress and a large white hat—leads us over to her mounted charcoal drawings of the dunes. “The artists are very upset with me for showing these,” she says. “My dear sister said, ‘But, April, you’re not a real artist.’ The others agree, but they’re too polite to say so.” She points to a printed “Sold” tag clipped to one of the dune drawings. “The public disagrees. This one found a buyer right away. The only one so far, but still. I wish I’d been here when it happened, just to see their faces.”

  “That’s rich,” says Dorchy. “Good for you, April.” She looks toward the tent opening. “We’d better get going,” she says. “We want to see everything.”

  I smile an apology at April and whisper, “I love your drawings.”

  “I would come with you if I could,” she says, “but I have to take my turn as saleswoman.”

  We walk around the village green under a cloudless sky. Boys and girls fish for metal toys in a canvas pool using magnets on long lines. Next to the pool is a mound of sand where other children dig for “treasure.” A row of booths offers handwork for sale, and cranberry, turnip, and asparagus displays. No “Fitter Families” tent. No carnival rides. I start to enjoy myself.

  “There they are!” Dorchy takes off at a run, weaving through the crowd of locals in Sunday-best dresses and overalls, and tourists in stylish sailor dresses and seersucker suits.

  I follow Dorchy to a row of
booths close to the old windmill. It stands unmoving, its wings still and some of its weathered shingles missing. “The oldest windmill on Cape Cod” claims a lopsided sign.

  “Pop a balloon, miss. Win a prize!” A man waves a fistful of darts at me. I smile and keep moving.

  Dorchy stops in front of “Ralphie’s Ring Toss—Ring the Bottle, Win a Prize, 3 Tries, 1 Penny!” As she stands there, a short red-haired man comes from behind the booth and does a double take. “Dorchy? That you?” He rubs his eyes. “As I live and breathe, girl, where have you been all this time? Maggie,” he yells. “Come see Dorchy.”

  “Ralph.” Dorchy’s face lights up as if she’s won a jackpot.

  A little boy in short pants reaches up to put two pennies on the counter of the booth. Ralph pushes the coins back. “We’re closed, sonny.” He pulls a balloon from under the counter and hands it to the boy. “Come back later.”

  A plump, gray-haired woman in a red dress envelops Dorchy in a hug and then holds her at arm’s length. “Let me see you,” she says in a warm, gentle voice. “You always look so precious in those earrings.”

  I get a glimpse of Dorchy’s face. Alive and joyful. The way she looked this morning when she rode her first wave.

  They lead her away, around the booth. Oh, Dorchy, please don’t stay with them. Please.

  I walk up to the counter and study the game. Under a shelf crammed with stuffed toys—teddy bears, dogs, and cats—a slanted board bristles with painted wooden pegs. Rope rings in colors matching the pegs lie on the counter. I lift one, note the rope feels scratchy, and eye the distance to the pegs.

  I’m preparing for Dorchy to say, “Ralph and Maggie are my carny family. I’m going to stay with them.”

  But right then the three of them come back, all smiles, and Dorchy says, “This is Rowan, my friend from New York I told you about.”

  Ralph grabs my hand. “We’re so happy Dorchy has a good friend to go camping with.”

  Maggie pats my back. “What happened to your leg?”